


ISOBEL

by losingmywill



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Battle, Blood and Violence, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Secrets, Feels, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Gore, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24517633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losingmywill/pseuds/losingmywill
Summary: Summary: Grounded in a place she barely knows, stuck in a marriage she loathes. Astrid Hofferson has thought of her fate as the beginning of her end, a wheel starting to crush her life. But also on how she mustn’t completely accept it. AU. Hiccstrid.
Relationships: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III/Astrid Hofferson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. ONE LIFE TRADED

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I haven’t written a serious, lengthy fan fic since… 2015 maybe (? (For a completely different fandom and with an old account)

**ONE LIFE TRADED**

_._

_Berk’s Isle is delighted with the response, and ultimately grateful._

_Sign Stoick “the Vast” Haddock._

_._

“Then, it’s done. Lurleen’s taken the decision. What’s the fussy?”

“She has yet to approve it.” ´

“Lurleen.” The hoarse voice of Bergljot the Sullen it hears above the crackle of the pyre fire. In a blink, all eyes of the table landed on her; the only feminine figure sitting in at the head.

Removing off her knuckles pressed to her lips as men awaited her answer, she sighs and curse at the idiot who interrupted and shifted an on-going discussion.

What an undesirable matter.

“She’s not gonna take it well,” she blurts out, drumming anxiously her fingers on her left thigh. 

Bergljot scoffed loudly, and then left her startled by his booming laugh. “Come on, Lulie. Be serious,” in his tone there’s the traces of amusement but also impatience, “You postponed it an entire week. We’ve ahead of us one and one only duty; save ourselves, and save this damned village.”

Many ‘aye’ and nodded, Lurleen only had a gratifying desire of strangling them with her bare hands. But reminded herself too of all that sweet, intoxicating, stolen wine that’d pooled under their tongues and had flood their systems, after all they were minds drowned, and rotten asses dirtying the seats. 

Before she could curtly replied, Bergljot sober up determinate in continue his rant, “She has no claim on these lands! Nothing’s left for her in here. Her sister will carry the leadership in a few months. Better to find her an use, what’s terrible if not give pretty heirs?” he rubs his eyelids in frustration, “Lurleen, there is a chance for us. And we’re not turning it down to please the whims of a child. We cannot choose a peasant, we cannot choose a low-born girl. They’ll note it, and it’ll be treason declared.” 

“She’ll refuse!”

Strangely, she had never shuddered so violently before, her fists hurts and she’s aware of the purple bruises that’ll be greeting her in the morning. But oh she so needed punch the table’s surface. 

“I just pin a fact in your stubborn skulls” Lurleen spats, “She’s my niece, Bergljot!”

“Lurleen—”

“Y’all really think she’ll agree without a fight?”

It settles a pregnant pause, and she thinks is okay. It gift time to cool down, think straight, she licks her lips and quickly swallows her tears. Her words were sharp and were yelled but didn’t took away her wee euphoria of for once bark at the Council.

However, Bergljot’s brows knit together, then lifted themselves in slow realization, “We will send her. But please don’t think we misunderstood you, nor we underestimate the issue. We have our nieces too, majority within these four walls have daughters and granddaughters. We all have our worries, we would be terrified like you are for your niece, but thing is; fate it’s cruel for the girls”, he raise his index in the warm air, “This is duty, one life traded for a population.” 

Sweeping a look at the room and the men gathered prove it —reluctantly— that Bergljot is not wrong. Aside that she saw it, that naked terror on their crinkle faces. Same as her, living with the fright eating them inside out, the ‘if’ query hovering above them all.

Though that empathy doesn’t necessarily mend either, it did make the situation more bearable.

“I fathom that… no girl dream their ‘big day’ totally corrupted and crooked.” He says through chapped lips, “But sacrifices are required if death is knocking the door.”

She bows her head defeated. Biting back sobs and combating shivers.

“And you Lurleen, as Interim Chief, you _must_ comprehend it.”

///

Scenery of the afternoon has it charms, with it pink-orange palette draw out amongst the soft blue of the wide heavens, reaching down and with it dim, bronze gleam sunbathing the ships wafting at the coast, the wild waves of the _Summer Current_ socking the fleets' wooden planks in every back and forth motion.

Below, it stretches a brownish-grey land kissing a top of sea water, dull mini isle known as Brynhild, and located in the south of the Barbaric Archipelago, with the Waterlands at their head, the Flaming Forest at the west, and the nearest to the Romans.

She dug her heels on that pliable ground, and while she stood enjoying the feeble winter caressing the expose skin of her arms, she rakes with her blue eyes the landscape of ash scattered and people tiding up the places overflowed of debris and mangled bodies. She got used to it in the past three months, however, it’s frankly disturbing; the gore dispersed; charred houses and horrid remains lying amidst bloody soil. Probably someone downtown is with an enlistment of names and a variety in age of every man, woman and child who fought, defended and fell.

It sickens her, due it’s a wrecked reality, and is bloats before her eyes, and everyone else’s. 

Submerged in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard the scrape in the slope’s boulder tier and her own name yelled.

“Hiding behind poles and climbing up hills won’t aid you. You’re making our work more complicated, Astrid!”

She gasps and quickly spun to see her older sister unreadable but solid expression, hands clasps behind her back and serene.

“You can’t delay this.” she speaks unceremoniously.

Astrid frowns and whisks away from her sister instead of replying, and scans at the distance the outstanding ship that rode the sea with confidence, the one that arrived today; two men were equipping its inner with enough food, water —and certainly mead— for a one week trip.

“Ah, I see,” her sister exhales, “It’s big, decorated and great as it wants, but its walls are thin and has mold everywhere, besides, they took for granted our capacities to stand the cold.” She cocks her head, “We’ll have frostbite if we head north, which we will. And entering summer in a few weeks doesn’t do shit either.”

“What?” Astrid asks meekly.

“On the good side, it is big enough…” she grins suspiciously when Astrid looks at her again, “… you can continue your tantrums.” She ends it in a tease whisper. 

The girl froze, “It’s not funny, Cami.”

“When you’ve known me of sugarcoating a situation?” for a moment it seems as her lips were to lift in another grin, but it fades as soon it came, and there’s a new gleam replacing in her blue —less big— eyes, she simpers sadly, “Aren’t we suppose to endure?” 

Cami’s words sink in and filled for last the quiet they went viewing the sun dipping in the horizon. Astrid tragically thinks that this’d be any other ordinary day, the second-to-last _Sunnudagr_ of _Einmánuður_. Whereas she would weasel out of her tasks as usual and take a run into the forests, exploring uncaring the greening surroundings in child-like amazement, skimming her palms over thick tree trunks and have virgin earth smell beneath her nose. A daydream, a fantasy its shatters the instant she catch sight of the lonely star hanging in the newly evening —hinting the arrive of her sisters. When it flickers down at her, she felt her stomach clench and then drop.

“It’s too late. We have to go.” warns Cami.

“Wait. Earlier, you said ‘we’. Are you coming with us or—?”

“You’re not wrong little sister, I did said ‘we’.”

“I don’t… understand—” 

She laughs. “I honestly thought you’ve a quick mind.”

Astrid frowns confused, “Does Lurleen—?”

“No. Nowadays the village is too hectic and chaotic, she’ll stay,” she shrugs.

“When— how this’s happened?”

“Discussions, agreements and more and more, now bite your tongue and follow me,” Cami orders.

She did as she was told, though with feet more heavy than those she carried when she came up to the slope hours earlier.

///

She was doomed.

She solves it as she gazed at her reflection. Shield rust and large with black veins running its surface may not give the most clear of the images, but the roman mirror they acquired broke because of her, she doesn’t regret it. But Astrid kept thinking and thinking; it’s the only thing she does since weeks ago. And have nightmares too, she now knows that there’s nothing worse than wake up sweaty and with freshly images taunting behind her eyes, proclaiming she had saw her hopelessness future with a brute of a husband and a spoiled baby within her womb. 

She just went out of the ritual bath being scrubbed and prayed —in hope she’ll give strong and healthy heirs ,old women words, not hers— when Hrefna beckoned her, the servant untied the laces of her pelts letting the cloth fell on the floor, then she’d thrust Astrid’s arms up and begun coating her naked body in flower essences. At her back, Póra, the younger maiden, nodded respectfully and immediately seek in the wardrobe, pulling out a striking linen dress of a beautiful scarlet color.

“That’s a pretty dress, Hrefna!” Cami exclaimed when she entered the room moments after, well dressed in black and her intricate braids resting on her head.

Astrid ignored her, and she continued ignoring her even when the maiden finished with her braid. Her hair loose as always had been. 

Once done, she finally regards her sister from the corner of the shield, who’s smiling distractedly at nothing in particular.

She scowls, “What’re you smiling at?”

Cami bent and sat on the worn out stool of the room, old wood creaking under her light weight. “What’re you thinking?”

“Stick your nose somewhere else.”

Cami’s forehead scrunches, clearly taken aback, “Come on. Speak your mind.” 

“And then what?” Astrid replies defensive. “Make fun of it?”

“Just spit it out, sister.”

“Stop taking this as something funny!”

Cami lifts up her hands extended as surrender, but choses a more condescending tone, “Okay! I was just trying to imagine how this isle is.”

“Full of wild people,” she scornfully mutters under her breath, “Just like my husband.”

Cami rolled her eyes, “Astrid, we don’t know him. He can be a fool, incapable of finding a women, so much his father had to do the dirty job—”

“And what if he’s not?!” Astrid chews her lip, “What if he is a savage? He’s from the north! If his father arranged it all it is perhaps because he’s a sadist with women, and all them have the brains to reject him in fear to live a misery life, except for me!”

“I bet he doesn’t know where to stick his coc—!”

“Leave us,” speaks a new voice.

Astrid’s stomach tightens in a flash.

She is familiarized with that voice; she has been avoiding it since all the nonsense begun.

Hrefna and Póra nodded at her Chief before retiring out the room, Cami tensed but did the same as well.

“Thank you. May I have a few words with you, Astrid?” The woman, Lurleen, starts circling around her niece, examining her whilst the young padded and twirled the soft fabric at her sides, refusing to look directly at her aunt.

“Your stuffs were packed,” she informs. “I’m sorry not… telling you before, about Cami. I prefer it this way; it gives your sister some experiences of her own too.”

Her first respond is frown at the nonchalance of her aunt. It hurt she thinks first of chiefly shit.

So she shrugs and shuffles her feet as an answer.

Continuing she hears a long, miffed sigh. “As with your trip, you had read the schedule, that’s main priority…” she talks some more, but Astrid didn’t paid her attention, she slowly drifted her eyes and only blankly stared at the woman she calls aunt, the aunt she swore to Áshildr Hofferson in the day of his death-bed that she would protect his daughters.

And aunt that unexpectedly ceased her train of thoughts and engulfed her in a tight embrace and muttered in the ear, “You’re doing the bravest thing ever than anyone in this tribe could ever do. You’re saving your homeland, saving me, your sister and her ruling,” Lurleen's softened eyes bore into hers, before planting a feather-like kiss at the top of Astrid’s head. “Mine blessing, and remember that you’ll go to a complete different life than here. You might find happiness.”

_And what if I don’t?_

Torches were lit and people lined at the sides; witnessing the youngest daughter of their former chief heading towards the port, where she’d be given like prized meat to the highest bidder.

That’s how Astrid viewed it.

And that’s the only way everyone should viewed it.

And rather than that and risk safe her, men and women stood inert in pity silence watching her every step, some of their children were sheltered under their armpits, the littlest —the babies— clutched to the arms that were holding them.

None saw it the manner she wished for. Not when there’s a parchment of agreements somewhere in the pile of paper sheets resting aloft her aunt’s desk. Not when her name was within that agreement explicitly stating her as fundamental element of the trade.

They saw the procession as rudimentary and her as the worthiest value they’d ever think of. And own.

Trailing her eyes upwards she met with the imposing fleet, the thing’s been battered with the years and it is hinted in its putrid exterior, nonetheless; it didn’t flunk in amaze the men at the shores that glimpsed it at first crack of dawn. It just warded tons of history. And had come from a land she scarcely knew of, haven’t heard of, and that was situated deep in the archipelago. 

A land she’ll be sailing to.

Fuck, she has tripped on her feet in her haste.

“Don’t make anything look as bad omen,” Cami hisses in front of her.

How come not if the mud beneath her feet still felt humid, the smell of burnt flesh still lingered in the crisp air and the ambiance reeked of mourning. 

Reaching the entrance, Astrid didn’t fail in notice the immense man standing in the threshold donning brown and black leather.

“Who is him?” She asks, leaning closer to Cami. 

The man —apparently hearing Astrid— whirled towards the girls, and in a broad, solemn voice introduces himself, “I’m Valthjof from the Isle of Berk.”

“He’ll be your escort,” Lurleen chimed in.

Impressed, Astrid surveys him up and down before asking esteemed, “You live in Berk?”

He shakes his head, “I born in Berk. Now I’m just a traveller and merchant.”

“He’s a retired warrior. But the Council there sent him; they say he’s one of the most trusted still alive.” Her aunt explains.

“But he is retired,” Astrid slowly repeats, less enthusiastic. 

“And I’ve fought through many battles, my lady,” he replies earnestly.

“How old are you?” She inquires again.

“Fifty-five,” Valthjof bowed politely, retreating to the inside without a word left.

Lurleen motioned at Hrefna and Póra with her hand, clearly indicating them to follow him.

Astrid cannot remember much of that night, it’s overwhelming per say. She does remember how everything moved faster, and their farewell with Lurleen was short and tinted with sourness. She spent the night in her room, lying on the improvised mattress crying and appalled, eventually falling asleep and dreaming of heirs and unknown lands, and with Lurleen’s words burning in the back of her mind when Astrid snagged away her wrist from her clammy grasp;

“You’ll be back in a few months to attend your sister’s naming. Maybe we’ll see you with the belly popped by that time.”

///

“May I come in?” Request the muffled voice after an incessant series of knocks. 

“What happen?” Cami receives, sitting before the big table with dozens of paperwork scattered.

“I’m bored. I walked through all this enormous piece of junk,” says her sister when comes in.

“And you see it fit to interrupt me,” Cami replies, momentarily lifting her gaze off a letter, her skinny fingers still gripping its corner.

Astrid shrugs, “Well, yeah,” and pauses brushing her fingertips on her forehead, sighing, “It bothers me have to be scrubbed like a fish every morning.”

Cami snort slightly, “Oh, we’ve been here one day.”

“Why they’ve to do it?”

“Because it’s considered good luck.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. Now, if you want be here with me, sit and shut up. I’ve stuff to read.”

Astrid ends up slumping on the nearest chair, biting her thumb nail and frowning. After a moment, she straightens against the leathered back of the chair, and sweeps a look over the table; all the documents that Cami has to check.

“Can I read it?” she asks even if anticipating a ‘no’ as an answer.

“Read what?”

She lays a hand on top of the table and haunches her weight in her arm, “The agreements, all those… Yes, the agreements.”

Cami seems reluctant at first, but ultimately withdraws a parchment and handed it at her, “Fine”

Astrid stretches her arm to take it, and when she finishes reading it, her gasp resonates within the chamber. “They did offer so much!”

“That’s why we took it quickly. They had apologize beforehand for the tasteless of some grains—”

“But they produce a lot,” Astrid interrupts.

“Exactly. And that’s all we care.”

Tossing the parchment, she begins hoisting from the chair, “I’m going to take a walk, to refresh my mind.”

“Do as you want. We have our _dagveror_ in an hour.”

Cami went out of her room half an hour later, in look for her sister. She spotted Póra perched in side of the ship.

Feet away Astrid was leaned in same position, hair flowing and eyes settled on the distance.

“What’s she doing?” Cami demanded —her strong voice had made the poor girl jump off her skin. 

“Watching,” the servant sputters. 

“Watching what?” her blue eyes narrow accusingly.

Póra shrugs, “She says the morning’s too beautiful.”

Even more confused, she saunters towards Valthjof; the man sitting over an old cask whilst hones his lengthy sword with a small rock, as soon he watches her, he stands and candidly greets her, “Cami.” 

“Póra says Astrid is watching the morning,” Cami announces skeptical.

He frowns pensive, peering at the blonde head that shines under the feeble sunbeams. “Maybe she’s not; maybe she is seeing a way to escape,” he ponders worried.

“What?”

Water around seems briefly disrupted by a _thing_ falling onto.

Astrid’s not with them anymore.

Instead, she’s swimming off the water while spewing water out her lungs, with sand heavy between her bare feet and the cold nipping her nerves.

But she’s free, and with that tingling at the end of her fingers; she ran —at last.


	2. TWICE AT THE NECK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yay, second chapter is up, and I wanna thank the wonderful Itsasumbrella, who she not only has great patience with me and I really don't deserve her, but because she's my beta for this story. Also, she has an amazing fic called "Wicked Game", if you know Spanish please I beg you; go read it!

When she was a little girl, Astrid Hofferson nearly drowned in the springs of her village —she went unsupervised to the forest, no one ever knew of the event ‘til months later when Cami noted how much her sister was scared of water, she coaxed her one night to spill the truth but the child clumsily concocted a story; she was put in taught in the next weeks. Little Astrid ended up enjoying it, the very challenge itself of floating and not sank, and the test of her breath when under the water.

She wouldn't ever prospect that that’d help her swam out after jumping from almost twenty-five feet.

‘Fuck’ and with a pop in the k was the first noise reverbing from her. The cold of the water was too much to bear, and the sand kept getting between her toes, shoes apparently lost forever in the murky ocean.

Aside those problems, there were even more when she started rushing through that unknown land, there were no signs of any tribe or village, it was just green esplanades near and far and nothing else.

Has that taken away her exhilaration when she ran? No, no it didn’t, she’d never felt such adrenaline before, it was a reckless blending as one with the blood within her limbs.

However, Astrid has to admit she was scared, adding acutely aware.

When she thought she’d ran enough to be far from the shore, she ran some more, and when her feet begun to feel sore, she stopped under a treetop and leaned on its thick trunk. The trees in this land were tall and alive, unlike those in her village, and then she promptly realized too; none raid nor has violence ever touched the place, reason why maybe the water in that myriad of lagoons dispersed seemed so clear.

She had left her right foot rest on the boulder and inspected the sole if there was any more damage than the already open wounds and dry blood. Knowing she’ll only be attended by a healer if she finds a tiny but village at the least she unglues from the tree and went ahead in search for that source of life, birds’ chirps weren’t enough but they fill the silence comfortably.

“On we go” she breathes.

Since toddler, Astrid has relished in the action of walk, explore, she considers herself a highly active kind a person, and mostly because she mulls over when alone too, so whether or not the girl finished her chores she’d usually sneaked out of them and go strolling across her village or into the nature. There was no responsibility in doing that, but Astrid hated so much the work her aunt or other people assigned it at her. And not because she belittle them, but because she wasn’t meant for those chores. 

Being a soon-to-be-wife of a barbarian didn’t fit in that category too.

She really hopes to rendezvous that village soon and convince any farmer with its life settled to adopt her.

Yeah, that’d be nice.

Just as nice when she finally come upon with one those lakes, the water it _is_ clear and seeing the fishes swimming makes her stomach grumble in hungriness.

“I should have eaten.” she says pensive. Looking at her grime, trembling reflection. 

“Yeah, you should have.”

A new face appears next to hers, Valthjof stares at her serious. She gasps his name.

“You followed me!” she hollered at him accusingly. And then felt rather dumbly, of course he would had.

He nodded. “I have to protect you.”

Astrid stares back at him innocently for a short but taut moment. “I didn’t get far enough, did I?” He shook his head.

Sighing heavily, she rose on her feet with eyes set on the few fishes. “I’m hungry.”

Valthjof nods again and stalks forward from her. 

Astrid frowns at his back, quietly confused if she has to go after him or not.

Sensing her distress, he spins on his heels, watching her carefully. “We’ll fish, but none of this lake.”

“Why?” she asks, “Is something wrong with this one?” Astrid scowls. Does she really have to go further with him alone? Does she? Go with a man she recently met with? Is she overreacting? Valthjof is meant to shelter Cami and her from any harm, yes. ‘Give a chance to someone and let them prove it wrong’ she goes with that philosophy. She has to trust him. However, the bounce of his sword attached to his hip and his absurd height squirms her, and reminds her how easily he can tear her apart if he wishes, shove the flat side of his blade against her throat and forces himself into her. What if the Council lied about him? He’s a retired warrior, and a brave warrior dies with honor and blood spewing out of their mouth in battled field instead of retiring in cowardice. Why would they send a coward? Why would they risk foolishly? A war would inevitably unleash, and Brynhild it's terribly vulnerable nowadays, fuck, that’s strategy; the berkians’d win over them and conquer her home converting all the inhabitants into thralls. 

“Trust issues?” He guesses.

“I barely know you.”

Valthjof seems to understand at her words. Scratching his nape, he says softly through thin lips; “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“So much for an assurance.” She bites back.

“What do you want, child?”

“I’ll query you if you don’t mind,” Astrid replies severe, “While you lead us.”

He nods, and stretches his palm at top of his chest. “I’ll answer truthfully.”

The girl, shivering and in bad fumes, balled a portion of her dress in fists and stepped before him.

He holds his hand up, “Wait. I’ll give you my boots.”

“What? No.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m wearing wool socks.”

He unties the cords stained with dirt and handed the shoes at Astrid, she puts them timid and thanking him.

He makes a noise of approve, adjacent clearing his throat; “Be concise with the questions, without subdue your curiosity. You may begin.”

Astrid mutedly agreed with his terms, and whilst wrapping her arms around herself, she thought of the hundreds of questions buzzing in her mind.

“Uh, ok.” She bits her bottom lip. “What happened in the ship after I jumped?”

“Your sister made it anchor there and then.”

“You’re the only one who got down?”

He nods.

“Where are we? Why’re there lots of lochs?”

Valthjof fixed at her with something near as astonishment glinting within his sunken eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m asking you precisely for that.”

“Pardon.”

“You’re not first.” Astrid mutters and its tone is like it left a resentful taste.

She shrugs after sighting his almost puzzled semblance, “You’d be surprised how much wedge there has been in my education and Cami’s”

“Oh”

“It’s understandable. She has to read, and memorized, and learn everything.”

“And you?” Valthjof asks as he unshed his sword and nicked a web of bushes. 

“And I’m there.” She grimaces inwardly —the untreated gashes of her feet; she felt them bleeding, if they don’t watch it they’ll get infected.

“You ok?”

“Yes.” The girl lies. “You were telling me…” she trails off.

“Waterlands.”

Her brows rose unimpressive. Whoever thought they were being creative naming isles would be scandalized with Astrid’s disappointment. “Logical.” She ends up replying, awkwardness bubbling up.

There’s a pause while they pass a streamlet.

“You didn’t false your age and name, did you?"

His jaw sets, “I needn’t spread misinformation.”

Astrid learns first thing about this mysterious man; he’s an awful liar. But that leads her towards the next question; “You said you were once a warrior.” she pulls it out, accommodating it for her consequent shot, “At least, I think Berk wouldn’t chose a wimp who fled from battles to protect his heir’s future wife. I’m pretty sure they would have disowned you. Is there anything you’re not being truthful about? Because I sense you’re hiding it.”

Valthjof’s eyes hardened on her as his nostrils flared, she had visibly upset him and it showed. Poor Astrid had to fight against a flinch that threated to strike her entire body from head to toes. Oh, she’s overstepping, she should apologize for such indecency— 

“I prefer you naïve than witty sleuth.” He quips.

Offended, she glares him, “And I will prefer you to tell the whole truth.”

“You have quite a character hidden within you.” he paused, and then inhaled profoundly, tired, “I wasn’t neither conceived nor brought out of my mother’s uterus in Berk.”

“W-what?” she stutters.

“I met with the Archipelago when I was a boy your age, teen and doltish. Recently escaped from home, and dragging sweet childlike dreams of being a warrior behind me.”

“What you were before that?”

“Bastard-son of a roman soldier. My mother a harlot, my father a man who couldn’t be denied.”

“Why did you ran off your home?”

“Mother found great enjoyment in flagellated me with a scourge. I stabbed her in the leg and left her bleeding, then I shielded under the protection of a tradesman.”

She swallows hardly, like there was a big lump stuck midway of her throat. “And that’s how you befriended with Berk, by the trips.”

He nods, “I combated alongside them for many years, and even defended the father of his current Chief and himself. They weight a lot of trust on my shoulders, and vice versa.”

“And now you’re retired.”

“Not by choice.” he tsks, “They begged me.”

Astrid frowns.

“I “retired” two years ago to go back to that life of merchant and rest how’s appropriate.”

“And… did you wanted?”

He laughs loudly, “I confess I grew fond with the Viking Way.”

She licks her lips before reminding boldly; “But you still lied and said you were from Berk.”

“Yes, that’s a cover, child.”

“I-“

“Your culture embraced me and I embraced them.” Valthjof heckles, “You may not know due it your village is the furthest and separated, but inside the Archipelago; Berk is the wealthiest, more respected village in that packet of savagery, brat heirs and ruthless Chiefs. And the most secretive, there’re only a few things they let go out of their cliffs.”

Astrid slowly processes the news, and ultimately gives the conclusion, “So they took you under their wing, so people wouldn’t despise you once they made you step off from the violence.”

“You are clever. Yes, I present myself from Berk, and so people don’t look at me twice. If people knew it; bastard and non-Viking.” he chortles.

“A matter of reputation.” Astrid deduces.

“Aye.”

The man fidgets with a layer of leather of his waist pulling out a small canteen. He opens up the lid with his index and brought the nozzle to his lip, but before it could touch it he halted and looked at her sideways, “Thirsty?” 

“Can you tell me more of Berk?”

Valthjof took a quick swig of whatever was the content but didn’t respond.

///

_THUNK!_

The whetted steel sunk with a sickly snap through flesh and spines and onto the trunk. Valthjof whirled his wrist as he pressed his fingertips in the slick skin of the freshly, butchered fish; he slid his long fingers in the slit letting drain blood and all its reeked fluids.

Astrid, who’d sat meters away witnessing the disembowelment— couldn’t stopped herself of wrinkle her little nose at the sight. 

“If it bothers you so much, why you sat there?” he asked it whilst cleaning up the blade with a ragged cloth. “Take a sit over there.” the rough man jerks his thumb behind him.

She peers where he pointed; another mucky boulder, “No. I wanted here.”

“Then you've to stop with the grimacing,” he spits his phlegm, “You’ll face worst things.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, “Your wedding night, when your husband’ll spread you open and fucks you.”

The girl stares wide eyed at him, baffled. And in expect of a rapid apologize.

“You didn’t like that, did you?” 

No she didn’t like it, she loathed it. Hurt and despair washed on her. The words felt near a welt striking her existence with a mammoth accurateness; as soon they arrive in Berk, she’ll be introduced, wedded, and taken on knees and palms. 

“You deserve better than a honeyed fable,” Valthjof says after a moment, inserting the blade around the ventral fin again, the fish’s hacked head finally fell on the ground with a muffled sound as its protruded eyes connect with Astrid’s. “Don’t fret, child. Though be prepared, I heard the consummation'll hurt to you first time.”

“He’s… Is he— the way you described it,” her tongue glide over her lips, anxiously and nervous, “His demeanor—” 

He scowls, “Berk’s heir is many things. I will not spoke of him nor Berk.”

Astrid shook her head, blonde strands swinging, “No.” the girl surveys the clear before her, “You won’t,” she stood, “But you’ve to, please. I’m their bride. I’m part of that trade.” softly pleads.

“You’ll meet them when you’re there.” his only answer before twirling the _torsk_ once more and smoothing his hand over its last ripped scales, “And don’t usher that childish argument of “because I have the right”.” warns. 

His butcher knife was gone after he’d laid it briefly on the trunk, but no for so long before it pointy, menacing end was thrust with force on the wood by delicate, trembling fingers gripping tightly the haft, sneering; the girl says; “Is in my right.”

The bulky man impassively contemplates her, “You threated me or asserted your words?”

Astrid doesn’t want a quarrel with Valthjof; he’s been nothing but polite and unfeigned to her. And admittedly, he lets her disadvantaged in many, many things. But to refuse the slightest details of the northern isle preoccupied her. 

“I’m begging you. Please. I departed my homeland to save it, because Berk promised us offerings, plenty of supplies; livestock, nourishment, furs, meat, coin. And weapons too. Valthjof, please, I can’t go ignorant to a country that’s helping us. _My_ country is perishing, my people are vulnerable, and we burnt every night since three months ago by the fire-breath of _dragons_.”

“Then why’d you tried to escape?”

She froze, “What?”

“We’re here; you pleading, and I’m making our _dagveror_ , because of you, we stand in this soil because you jumped. You’re trying to convince me with a speech even after you had run off. Where do your words fall?

He hadn’t touched her, and yet it felt like he slapped her. 

“I’ll not speak of Berk. Now, help with the bonfire, child.”

Having taken the initiative rapidly; Astrid searched after dry branches and flat rocks and made a neat heap of dead leafs meanwhile Valthjof finished slicing the fish in parts and lighting said bonfire. Together and summoned in their thoughts pierced the flesh’s chunks in the surplus branches bracketed by nature noises. 

“You mentioned dragons,” commented Valthjof after spitting spines that’d mired in his teeth.

They were half-eating, sitting near the heat source, he had insisted on going anywhere but the dirt, but she declined and had said that there was no salvation for her dress anyway, even then; it was a pity that the hem of the fabric had turned from a rich scarlet to a dark brown.

“I did mention them.”

“They’re the causing of yours devastation I heard.”

“Yes,” she swallows, “They have been raiding us since _Mörsugur_.”

“You know why?”

“Of course I don’t know. We actually don’t understand. After six years of peace… we foolishly thought the beasts were gone.”

“No guilt on that. I imagine your village suffered all those years.”

She nods.

There’s another wave of tranquil and definitely more comfortableness, before Valthjof cleared his throat, “I recall a vivid moment when I was seven, when one of my mother’s colleagues told me that dragons have their own place, not a nest nor an island, more like a… world. A world never visited by mankind.”

She frowned skeptical, “And— and you believed her?”

“I was young. I would have assumed the existence of a _margýgr_ if someone would told me,” he chuckles contagiously with Astrid too, “She said a drunken sailor told it at her when he finished with her, adding he had seen it. And if hadn’t been for the thick fog, he could have it visualized finely.” 

Astrid smirked, not quite capable of picturing a small Valthjof awed-struck. Amusement quickly dissipated; she asked frowning, “Where supposedly would be this world?” 

“Located at the edge of ours,” he says dryly.

“I wish these beasts fell and died at the edge of the world.” responds scathingly. 

He snorts. 

“Funny? The pests are separating and ending families, and I’m sure we’re not the only village target it of their assaults—” 

"No, it’s not funny. I’m aware of how bloody and destructive their onslaughts are."

“You ever saw dragons, right?”

“Many times.”

“You had ever slay them?”

“Many times.”

She scrutinized him in the mere second restful of such ruffled talk, she kept studying him though; mindful of his sudden strain in movements, as if he was being careful in his body language, and also of the delivers of his replies. She commented nothing about it. They barely exchange glances, and just gathered their stuff and started the road back to the shore.

“Don’t expect me of me not to scold you. You were incredible irresponsible, you could have killed yourself from the height you leaped. Astrid, I love you so much, but for your stupidest you will be locked in your chamber, you will be washed and dressed inside with the assist of Hrefna, and feed by the hand of Póra. Learn the consequences of your actions,” had coldly said Cami when she met with her.

Despite following Cami’s dire instructions of Astrid not being allowed in leave her room for the six days of the voyage —Even if against her will—. Both held the knowledge of how much they cared for the one and the other. Regardless of how much Astrid wanted to wrench her sister’s frigid and despotic attitude with less courteous words, Cami’s severity displayed on her straightforwardness can’t be blamed at all. She’s been assigned an obligation; she’s acting based on what superior authority had edict her to do, whether they like it or not.

///

Purple smeared over the sky in its dawn whilst it transited into the greyish classic of the early mornings. Long, golden tresses weren’t resting in the pillow anymore, with the gown ridden up by her thighs and bent in the hip; she probed the gashes through the whitish bandages with the little aid of frail sunrays and candlelight. Though attended, the keen pangs of her feet injuries had almost made her rue her escapade. 

Howbeit it turned into a blunder, and had bothersome her sister further; not only it had irked them, it had shifted the date of the arriving to late evening of _Laugardagur_ , and not _Frjádagr_ as had been scheduled. 

That time has shortened, and now in only some hours they’ll reach the northern isle, they pictured it in quite the calm ambiance, that was until disagreeable news came.

It was during a second where Astrid was pondering if whether relief herself in the solitude of her gelid chamber, when a turmoil blasted and roared outside the door, followed by unintelligible mutters and indecorous swears. Hrefna kicked her way in and —with an apologetic smile, and a hurried “Good day”, hastened her in a linen bluish dress, another of those romans garments Brynhild had stolen. If she hadn’t chided her, the woman would have forgotten to even wipe her face with a cloth soaked in clean water.

“I’ll not be cleansed?” Hrefna flickered down at her, confused by the unmistakable tone of disappointment from the girl. It wasn’t the cleaning that Astrid has been complaining for days, of course not, it was the action of being bathed like she couldn’t do it by herself and the goddamned prayers, and that the servant lefts her skin chafed and reddened after the end of every bath.

“No. Later.”

Cozy in a thick fur she went out to the wide deck of the fleet, in time to watch her sister’s plain indignation expressed in her knitted brows, Valthjof seemed explaining of some stuff at her feet distanced.

She stalked towards them, eventually picking up their en going discussion.

“No,” her sister solidly interjected. “We are not gonna get down this ship,” her scowl deepened as she spats, tugging her own fluffy fur, concealing her flimsy arm-freckles and that crimson dot birthmark aloft the curve of her right shoulder.

“It is required,” he insisted.

“And they can shove up their pretty requirements wherever they choose to like,” her sister stretches her arm at her, quickly holding hands, “I’ll repeat it; no one is getting down this thing.”

Astrid’s blonde head tilts, fixing her blue eyes at Valthjof, “Are we‘ll get down?”

“He says so, a berkian boat will pick us,” responds her sister in a latent enraging. 

Her face hardens, and in such coldness —that Astrid has never heard her use ever, voiced her realization, “Because they have insolated themselves,” she juts her chin out, attempting to level her short height with his’ massiveness.

He crosses arms under his chest, “It’s a measurement of protection.” 

“Nonsenses,” she shrieks, “This secretiveness, this self-marginalization is not sane!”

Valthjof exhales resigned, chest significantly deflating at the clear remorseful for his subsequent words, “You wanted me to prattle about Berk, I denied it, but now it may be your only soothing,” he stroked his eyelids distressed, as if he’s battling an argument with himself. When he straight his back and swiped his tongue over his lips, he seems he lost it; “You two are heading to a tribe with starkly differences with yours, inhabited by people as sturdy as their soil. People who wears leather on their waists and clad-armor upon their shoulders, not linen but wool, not soft but harsh, bloodlust warriors at the best and when it comes to defend Berk,” he then sets eyes on Astrid, “And you’re the fortunate to stay there; to live, to eat, to piss and shit, to breath among them, fucking too and breeding the next heir. Better adapt quickly.” 

Astrid stiffens at the last mention, “Not a baby-oven,” she snarls baring her teeth.

He looms over her, squinting at her lithe presence, “Then prove them otherwise.”

“They’re here!” shouted someone.

"Pack your things and get in that boat," he rushes them.

“N-no,” Cami stutters.

"Here," he mutters, withdrawing two daggers from the sheaths at his sides, "You know the basis, how it works; you swing and cut." 

Disbelieving; the girls took each knife, “We don’t know how to fight,” cleared Cami.

“Aye,” he resumed his short lecture ignoring her protests, “Twice at the neck if necessary; stabbing or slitting,” making a demonstration by circling his own neck with the thumb.

That’s the last they saw of Valthjof of Berk; a ghost of a smile dancing on his thin lips and his right hand gripping his sword’s hilt, the ever proof he existed heaving in his former blades now dangling in the girls’ fingers.

At the boat two brawny men plucked their stuff away from Hrefna and Póra, barely making eye contact with them, and had already begun to unroll the flag. The older with the red tuft stared contently at Astrid.

He took a pace forward, she took one back. 

It’d made him roll his eyes. “We won’t harm you, we’ll not touch you. You are our heir’s bride,” he brushes off snot of his nose, and continues hauling the khaki rope whilst surveying her sister, “and I have understood you’re the heir of your little village.” With a final tug, the rope strained and the flag sprawls with a gentle flap, “If I want to fuck, I go with a whore, not squealing high-born girls.” 

Needless to mention neither couple exchanged words with the counterpart, if not urgently needed. And though the last path of their sailing went tensed after the offense and mere insult, it notably carried acute expectation, suspense and heightened fearfulness. And had hit Astrid disastrously, basked in Cami’s bony arms and wailing helplessly after having realize how it was actually happening, she resented and had scold herself for her weakness, but the moment had simply surpassed her; the cruelness of the Council in subtlety selling her, yes; there’s a grand reason lurking behind it, but the cost to get rid of her and bare her of decisions and a possibility for a distinct fate? 

Albeit shrouded in a fog and a night as dark as coal upon them, Berk starts clearing up at quite a decent distance.

Nearby the coast were stood two large, too burly and broad figures and one remarkably skinny. When the blurs lessens, his appearances slowly reveals, the lanky had a mop of auburn hair at top a head comically too big for his body.

And she sees green, green eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Green eyes that stride away from the shore and gaits towards her new home.


End file.
